


like liquor

by Anonymous



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 13:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The way he kissed, bold and unforgiving, the authoritative flick of his fingers as he undid the fastenings of Jesper’s clothes, the way he looked at him right before he met his lips, like he knew exactly what he was doing and what it did tohim— that was the real Wylan, when all the pretense fell away.





	like liquor

Few pieces of furniture meant as much to Jesper as the worn armchair in the sitting room of the Van Eck estate.

Sinking into it felt like dissolving into a welcoming abyss, tipping backwards, further and further back until the world melted away. It was heaven when he toppled down after a long day, swinging his legs over the side of it and tilting his head against the opposite armrest, all his pent-up tension seeping out into the luxurious upholstery. He could always count on it to be there for him and to treat him right, to never squeak, never budge, never fail him.

But what he loved most, without a doubt, was the way it felt when Wylan pinned him back against it, straddled him, kissed him like his life depended on it.

Knees bracketed Jesper’s thighs, soft and warm and fucking blissful, and he splayed his hands flat against them, dug his nails in. Those dangerously nimble fingers that could mix a little bit of this and little bit of that and topple invincible men and indomitable empires ghosted against the nape of Jesper’s neck, hot lips dragging insistently across his throat, gentle over his pulse, teeth sharp against his jaw.

He snuck his hands beneath the hem of Wylan’s shirt, brushing the waistline of his trousers just enough to be suggestive, to set him on edge. He was rewarded with a breathless moan and pushed further, dragging his fingers across the soft skin of Wylan’s waist, right above his hips, the jut of his ribs, dug them into the small of his back, needy and possessive.

He could leave marks that no one else would see but Wylan would feel for days to follow, and that was precisely the point. Nobody else had to know how intrinsically they belonged to one another, how much more this was than sloppy kisses and fumbling touches in dimly lit bedrooms, how they were branded onto each other, etched into every crevice of skin and bone.

He’d been lured in, head over heels from the start, gradually becoming addicted, drawn into something he never could, never _wanted_ to escape. The devil was in the details — in the way Wylan grinned when he suggested a plan so ruthless, so vicious and _Kaz-like_ that Jesper couldn't help but gape in abject amazement, impressed, infatuated with how cruel, how deliciously dangerous his boy could be. It was the way he dragged Jesper out of sight, into secluded alleys and dark corners, when the heat of their friendly bickering boiled over and they had to get away, get their hands on each other, kisses growing fervent, desperate, utterly filthy. It was the way Wylan looked up at him when he dropped to his knees, crystal blue eyes and long lashes, soft pink lips parted around him; hands rough as they dug into Jesper’s skin, pressed into his thighs.

Now, above him, Wylan rolled his hips, provocative, teasing, and Jesper bucked up on reflex, unable to stop the motion. His hands snapped away from Wylan’s waist, snagged on his shirt in the process, and cradled Wylan’s face instead, jittery and inelegant, fingers at the hollows of his jaw, his thumb passing over Wylan’s bottom lip, red and swollen, goddamn _sinful_.

“Look at you,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

He was exquisite — golden hair mussed from Jesper’s ministrations, wayward curls drooping over his forehead, his skin flushed beneath that sweet dusting of freckles, chest heaving with ragged breaths, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, collar askew. He looked like a painting, a priceless, irreplaceable masterpiece, the very image of debauchery.

Jesper, distantly ashamed at how easy he was to unravel, dipped his head to mouth at the jut of Wylan’s collarbone; he dragged his teeth across the sensitive skin and Wylan jerked forward, dropped his head forward onto Jesper’s shoulder like it was too much, _too much_, and he couldn't stay upright any longer. Jesper turned his head and kissed him harder, open-mouthed and hungry at his throat.

Wylan’s breath came in short gasps, and Jesper wanted to listen to it, this and nothing else, forever. He bit down and ran his tongue over the redness that lingered, and Wylan ground down onto his hips, like it was a rebuke, an admonishment for leaving marks, but Jesper knew better. It was a tired routine — Wylan would whine and complain, put on a good show, and later trace fondly, almost reverently over the dark bruises when he thought no one could see.

Everything about him was so pale, flawless, spotless, infuriatingly aristocratic. It was intoxicating, a rush unlike any other, to mar that perfection and leave behind evidence of what they did behind closed doors, the kind that left everyone curious about what lay underneath those angelic curls and innocent eyes.

And that was all it was, really: a facade, and more so with every day Wylan spent with the Dregs. He was growing sharper, developing edges and collecting secrets, slipping into his father’s world and that of the Barrel with startling ease. He was the most powerful man in Ketterdam and nobody realized it until it was too late.

The way he kissed, bold and unforgiving, the authoritative flick of his fingers as he undid the fastenings of Jesper’s clothes, the way he looked at him right before he met his lips, like he knew exactly what he was doing and what it did to _him_ — that was the real Wylan, when all the pretense fell away. He reached out and took what he wanted without a shred of remorse. And Jesper, unable to resist, gave without hesitation.

Wylan pulled back abruptly, his hands now flat against Jesper’s shoulders, putting distance between them to catch his breath. He watched the heavy rise and fall of Jesper’s chest, dragged his gaze up and down and wherever he liked like a predator assessing his prey, and his lips quirked into a sharp smile for a single, exhilarating second before he surged forward again and kissed Jesper harder, pressing himself closer, tilting Jesper’s head back against the plush spine of the armchair. He was a force to be reckoned with when he got this way, gasping and shivering under Jesper’s touch, yet retaining just enough control to be in charge of what happened next. He was a wildfire, raging and ruthless, and Jesper wanted nothing more than to let it consume him.

He let Wylan slip his shirt down over his shoulders, baring heated skin to the cool air. He felt blunt fingernails drag over his chest like Wylan was desperate to mark him too, but he didn't look down, he couldn't, too transfixed on the way Wylan had his lip between his teeth, and how his mouth was a breath away from Jesper’s, scalding but barely touching, tantalizing, paralyzing, making Jesper’s blood rush so furiously his head spun. He wanted this, all of it, everything Wylan had to offer, so badly it hurt.

Wylan slid his hands back up the column of Jesper’s throat, none too gently, brushed warm fingertips over his cheekbones, settled them at the back of his neck and hastily hauled him forward, rolled his hips to match the sudden movement. He swallowed the choked sounds Jesper couldn't keep down, breathed him in like he was drowning and Jesper was a lifeline, grasped at him like Jesper was all that was keeping him afloat.

This, the way they did it, was like a time bomb, seconds ticking away faster and faster and rougher and harder until it went off. And when it did, Jesper would push himself upright and shove Wylan back, take him up to their bedroom, leave nothing but a trail of clothes behind. Or, more often than not, they failed to even make it out of the sitting room at all, too caught up in _more, more, more_ to move. Instead, Jesper would shove Wylan the nearest wall, pin his hands over his head and drag open-mouthed kisses over every sliver of skin he could see until Wylan whimpered, trembled, begged brokenly, wretchedly to be touched. Or sometimes Wylan would maneuver them around at the last second in a surprising feat of strength, push Jesper against the dresser and get things done his way, unwilling to surrender completely. It was intoxicating, addictive, it made Jesper delirious with white-hot desire when Wylan, his sweet little merchling, told him to get on his knees, “_Just like that, Jes,”_ and dragged him back up when he was shivering, too close to the edge, pulled Jesper down to his height to whisper against his mouth what he wanted Jesper to do to him next.

But when everything else vanished too quickly amidst the insistent press of bodies, the world seeping away until it was them and nothing else, they never even made out of the armchair.

Jesper’s palms settled on Wylan’s hips again and he pressed down hard, trying to steady him, slow him down, make his punishing kisses turn sweet and last forever.

And it never ceased to amaze him, how everything about Wylan changed when their pace did — he could do the most obscene things without batting an eye, without a moment of trepidation. He would swallow Jesper down like there was nothing he craved more and groan when Jesper’s hips bucked forward as if he were the one getting off on it; the way he moaned Jesper’s name, like it was a prayer and a curse and the filthiest expletive he could think of, when Jesper fucked him into the mattress and Wylan dug his nails into Jesper’s back and begged for _more, harder, faster._

Yet it was the gentle things that made him falter. Jesper would drag wet, careful kisses over his throat, over his wrists, the insides of his thighs, would take care of him, be good to him. Wylan would sigh and melt into it like it overwhelmed him to be met with affection, like it was too much, like he couldn't believe this was something he could have, something he deserved despite everything, like anybody could love him like _this_.

So Jesper slowed Wylan down, tilted his head back and parted his lips, as he fumbled blindly to undo the last of Wylan’s buttons. He broke away to let him slip out of the shirt, watched avidly as he tossed it onto the floor behind them. He took a moment to stare at the canvas of exposed skin, perfect smooth marble, the dusting of freckles over his shoulders like powdered-sugar snow, before flicking his eyes back up to meet Wylan’s. His idle fingers on Wylan’s hips dug in and he tugged him forward.

“Kiss me,” he ordered in a low hiss, soft but demanding, and Wylan positively whimpered in response.

He complied and gave up his precious control if only for a moment, handed it over and allowed Jesper to lead wherever he wanted to go, to do whatever his greedy hands pleased. That beautiful blush was already taking hold, spreading over the slight arch of Wylan’s cheekbones, his throat, over his chest, his heart, so perfectly red against the pale backdrop.

And then Jesper delivered the final blow, those two words that always had Wylan melting helplessly against him like liquid gold. _“Good boy,”_ he murmured, with a smile that curled deviously at his lips before he was even aware of it. He knew and Wylan knew exactly what would follow — beautiful, utter submission. Jesper’s thumb grazed the sensitive skin just below Wylan’s waistline and with that he _shattered_, gasped, low and positively starving, leaned into Jesper’s touch like he could somehow make himself feel more, _even_ more.

Jesper knew he had him right then, warm and pliant and undeniably his. Wylan responded to sweet nothings, words of praise and encouragement, with a fervent desperation, like he never wanted to hear anything else, like he would give his all to be as good for Jesper as he wanted him to be.

All Jesper had to do now was lean over him, graze his teeth over Wylan’s jaw, mouth at his throat, right below his ear, mutter against his flushed skin how well he was doing, how good he was to him, how fucking spectacular he felt, and Wylan would come apart, back arched, head thrown back, thighs trembling around Jesper’s hips as he lost himself to searing bliss. And Jesper wasted no time to bring about just that; he diverted his attention to the fastenings of Wylan’s trousers, felt the muscles shift and tighten so wonderfully beneath him. He soaked in the way Wylan’s palms fell heavily against his chest, like he needed an anchor to remain upright through it all.

Right then, Jesper was ready to consider his little power-play, his wicked grab at the upper hand, a victory. He ventured further, dipped his fingers lower, marveling at how easy it was, when out of nowhere, Wylan’s hands snapped down between their bodies and stopped Jesper in the middle of his intricate work, pale fingers circling tightly around his wrists.

“Bastard,” Wylan snapped, sharp and amused but thoroughly breathless, and Jesper almost lost it, was nearly unraveled by a single teasing word and the press of Wylan’s fingers against his pulse.

Met with no resistance, Wylan plucked up Jesper’s hands and forced them against the armrests, palms down, pressing them firmly into the plush fabric. He lifted his chin and looked at Jesper in a way that made it very clear there would be repercussions if he dared to move a single inch, and a shiver rolled down Jesper’s spine, and he instantly forgot he’d ever, _ever_ wanted Wylan submissive beneath him.

Wylan refocused his attention on the half-undone state of Jesper’s clothes, popping the final buttons, wasting no time in getting to the point and wrapping his hand around Jesper’s length with no warning, no preamble, so sudden and blistering, so fucking perfect around him that Jesper blacked out for a moment with a helpless groan, stars dancing in the corners of his vision. He could have died right then, hurtled into that abyss of violent pleasure, never to return. The sounds that escaped his throat came unbidden, whispers and gasps and maybe Wylan’s name, his eyes squeezed fiercely shut like he was worried if he opened them he’d find none of it was real.

He felt Wylan lean forward, hovering over him as he trembled with the unbearable effort of staying still, of keeping his hands to himself, digging his nails into the armrests wishing they were Wylan’s waist instead.

Wylan dragged his free hand over Jesper’s stomach, across the muscles that rippled beneath, over his chest, settling it finally against Jesper’s side to keep him in place, nice and obedient. His mouth was scorching against Jesper’s throat, tongue flicking over heated skin, teeth grazing his pulse point, then velvet lips kissing him softly, tenderly, then switching back, back and forth, to taking him apart kiss by filthy kiss in time with his strokes. Jesper grit his teeth against the fucking mind-numbing bliss of it, took it all without complaint.

This was the version of Wylan that he revered most, that he daydreamed of, that had him waking up in the middle of the night, hard and panting at the mere memory of what Wylan would do to him.

It was breathtaking, of course, to have him spread out, incoherent with want, on the lavish bed upstairs, eager for Jesper to touch him, to worship him, to take him apart with wandering hands and a clever mouth. But nothing compared to Wylan’s smile taking on that razor-sharp edge, the way he shed his wholesome facade and wrapped Jesper so cruelly around his little finger, sweet and harmless on the outside, greedy and hungry on the inside, his unabashed confidence and breathy words driving Jesper insane, disassembling him one piece at a time. Touching him, kissing him, bending his fingers just right, _fucking there, Wylan, right there_, then hauling Jesper on top of him and telling him how to be good to him in return.

Jesper opened his eyes to a faceful of ruddy curls and Wylan’s mouth still on him, right where his neck met his shoulder. He nudged at him and Wylan graciously obliged, looked up, met his lips, sloppy and wet, so hot it burned, so achingly overwhelming that Jesper gave up, gave in, consequences be damned, and pulled his hands away from the armrests. He drew them upwards, one to tangle in Wylan’s hair, one to grasp at him, his hips, his thighs, his back, wherever he could reach, everything growing messy and uncoordinated as he hurtled towards the edge, reckless, shaking, crumbling apart.

Wylan flicked his wrist just the way Jesper liked it, rough and sharp, dragged a thumb over his head in a motion so deliberate, so fucking calculated Jesper’s breath caught. He broke their kiss, looked at Jesper from underneath pale lashes with that merciless smirk that stopped Jesper’s heart and dragged the air from his lungs. He traced his bottom lip with his tongue, slow, so slow, so red, and Jesper’s eyes flicked down to follow the motion before snapping back up to Wylan’s, pupils blown wide. He was tumbling over the precipice now, unable to stop the descent.

Wylan dipped his head low one last time and pressed the softest of kisses to Jesper’s mouth, disarmingly chaste, so perfectly innocent — boiling the blood in Jesper’s veins, making his heart burst through his ribcage — then drew away just enough to murmur against his lips.

“Come for me, Jes.”

And just like that he was gone, lurching forward, spilling over his stomach and Wylan’s fingers with a ragged, broken gasp. Wylan worked him through it, watched him with a dangerous intensity, never once took his eyes off Jesper’s face until the glazed expression melted away and the world slipped into focus once more. Jesper exhaled, shaky, spent, floating, and relaxed his hands, stared at the white indents his nails had left on Wylan’s waist. He crashed back against the armchair and met those piercing blue eyes.

“Good boy,” Wylan echoed, throwing Jesper’s words so generously back at him. Jesper might have whimpered at that, the blood still rushing deafeningly in his ears, Wylan’s hand still wrapped loosely around him. He stared helplessly at the glistening, reddened lips a breath away from his own, at the furious blush and raging desire splattered over every inch of Wylan’s face.

For a split second Wylan flashed him a gentle, indulgent smile but it was gone as soon as it’d appeared, replaced once more by the other one: terrible, vicious, entirely ravenous. He cocked his head as he stared back at Jesper, satisfied and dangerous and inviting all at once — a warning, a promise, a threat. His voice dropped, low and commanding.

“Now,” he said, “take me upstairs.”


End file.
